


Stay Inside Our Rosy-Minded Fuzz

by rillrill



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Accents, Body Worship, Cock Warming, Domestic Fluff, Feminization, Hand Jobs, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Lingerie, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, QPQVerse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6298045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various QPQverse one-shots/ficlets from Tumblr, collected here for your reading pleasure. Some are short, some are longer. That's all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read Quid Pro Quo or none of this will make sense to you.
> 
> Title is from "Apartment Story" by the National which is a really excellent Alex/GW song for this verse, just FYI.

He can sense it practically before Alex can. Or, at least, he’ll address it long before Alex will: as soon as George sees the way his boy starts to blink and flinch away from bright lights and loud noises, he knows he’s got a migraine coming on, knows it’s time for Alex to call it a day. Not that Alex ever does, at least not of his own volition, nor before it gets really bad. Alex will work himself ninety percent of the way to death if he’s given the chance.

George doesn’t intend to let that happen.

He sees Alex start to falter as they’re walking up the stairs to the fourth floor of Russell, and George reaches out a hand to stable and catch him before he can miss the step and fall – has to exert a surprising amount of his strength to do it, feels Alex putting his full weight on the arm George hold out. “Okay,” George mutters in his ear. “You need to go home.”

“No, I don’t,” Alex says immediately. “I’m fine.” But the way he’s blinking rapidly, his eyes darting back and forth with suppressed panic, betray otherwise.

“Can you see all right?” George asks, and as Alex opens his mouth, he interrupts. “Let me rephrase. Is your vision completely and totally normal? Or do you have a migraine coming on?” _Don’t lie to me, Alexander_ , says his tone; he doesn’t have to say the words out loud.

Alex pauses, then shakes his head. “I should stay,” he mutters. “It’s only four forty-five, I can stick it out for at least another fifteen.”

“It’s four forty-five. We can leave,” George says firmly, and as Alex starts to falter, he adds, “Yes, we. I’m certainly not letting you bike home like this. No one will miss us.”

It’s probably a testament to how bad Alexander actually feels that he doesn’t bother to argue, just allows George to shepherd him into the car and quickly turn off the radio. Traffic is already a godforsaken nightmare, and George whips out every shortcut and takes every opening he sees, but it’s still nearly six by the time he gets Alex into his apartment, and by then he looks like he’s already gone – runs for the bathroom, wincing with every step; George can hear him running the shower to cover the sound of vomiting and cringes in sympathy. His boy – _his poor love_ – he doesn’t deserve this, not with every other physical ailment he’s had to contend with, the flus and fevers and muscle spasms that wake him up gasping some nights. It makes George ache _for_ him, wishes he could take on some of whatever he’s feeling; he has no doubt that Alex is telling the truth that the migraines are the worst, because they’re the only things he doesn’t pretend don’t bother him.

“Da– _George_ ,” he heads from the bathroom, and immediately makes a beeline for his boy. He hovers in the doorway, briefly uncertain. Alex is slumped on the floor in front of the toilet, looking ashen and clammy, the hair at the back of his neck frizzy and wet with sweat.

“What do you need, baby?” He barely recognizes his own voice. He sounds tight and choked. He’s never like this.

“My medication,” Alex says limply. “It’s in the cabinet, I just don’t know if I can find it – my vision – and I don’t want to puke in the sink – this is so fucking annoying for you, I’m so sorry.”

George clenches his jaw, shakes his head as he opens the medicine cabinet. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry,” he says firmly. “This isn’t your fault, you have nothing to apologize for.” He finds the red prescription bottle hidden behind a couple others and shakes a pill into his hand, filling the glass beside the sink with cold water. But he hesitates as he crouches next to Alex, not sure how he’ll react to further help – it’s always a toss-up with him. “Do you – can you manage it?”

Alex takes a deep breath, swallows tentatively. He takes the pill George places in his outstretched palm, but his hand is trembling and George fears for the heavy water glass. “Here, sweetheart,” he whispers, lifting the glass to Alex’s lips. “Don’t swallow that dry, it’s not good for you when you’re nauseous.”

He sees Alex hesitate before he takes a tiny sip, then another, larger one. Alexander clenches his jaw. Swallows. He shudders a little, but the pill stays down.

George heaves a blessed sigh of relief.

Alex disappears into his bedroom not long after, closing the door tightly behind him, and George makes it his business to keep himself occupied and quiet; he chills a couple bottles of Gatorade, takes stock of what’s in the fridge. His boy always likes something packed with sodium after one of these. Satisfied that he’s done all he can, he takes a seat on the soft leather couch, opens the thick infrastructure bill he’s meant to be reading and finds his place.

It’s a few hours later when he hears the sounds of stirring from Alex’s bedroom; George stands and stretches before placing the carefully highlighted bill aside and grabbing one of the Gatorades from the fridge. He opens the door tentatively, heart thudding in his chest – he has no reason to be so sick with worry, knows it’s a mostly harmless condition, but still: he can’t stand seeing Alex like this, weakened with his defenses down. It’s unnatural. “How are you feeling?” he asks, trying to modulate his voice low and quiet, cause as little disturbance as possible. 

“Marginally better,” Alex says in a groggy voice. “I… thanks.” He lifts his head enough up off the pillow to beckon George closer, and he heeds him immediately, twisting the cap off the Gatorade. But Alex waves it away. His voice sounds embarrassed and uncomfortable when he looks up through slitted eyes, squinting to keep out the dim light of the bedroom, and says, “Can you…”

“Of course,” George says immediately, understanding, and Alex moves closer to the edge of the bed. He has to be the big spoon when he’s still coming off a migraine, can’t bear to be touched otherwise, but George doesn’t mind. He takes off his shirt and pants, lies down carefully on his side in his boxer briefs and t-shirt, and lets Alex move as close to him as he dares. Slowly, tentatively, Alex touches more of him, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him closer, like a favorite pillow, a teddy bear. (Alex never had teddy bears as a kid, George remembers. An offhand comment he made while walking through the midway at the Virginia State Fair. _I liked weird toys. I had a Baby Bop, like from Barney? I never even saw an episode of Barney, we didn’t have it in Nevis I think, but for some reason I had that. Some kid probably left it behind at the hotel or something._ George had made a half-assed attempt to win one in a carnival game to correct that; had lost spectacularly. Alex had sipped his root beer float, _You should go pro, you really got an arm for darts_. Smirking.)

Alex’s left arm squirms underneath George’s torso and he adjusts so as not to crush it. It’s bare, he’d left his Rolex on the bathroom sink – the ticking was probably too much in his sensitive state. George hesitates before wrapping his hand around the naked wrist in front of him, encircling the sacred bone and tendon in a light grip.

He feels Alex’s chest rise and fall behind him, and George relaxes with him.


	2. von steuben + possessive george POV

In the whole of human history, not one good story has ever begun with the words, “So there was a party on a boat.”

It occurs to George that he should probably go to the party. For political reasons, and for the sake of being polite, and also because Alexander seems to want to attend the party. If George were to say he had little interest in attending, that would be very generous indeed, but -- Alex wants to go. And Alex probably deserves it, given his performance at work as of lately; George never ceases to marvel at the inner machinations and adaptable quality of his boy’s mind. So, well, all right, then, he thinks, as he suits up in his yacht-rock best; they’ll go to the party. They’re expected.

Of course, they’re met at the dock by the Baron himself, Senator Von Steuben in all his nauticalia-clad glory. “Ahoy, my friends!” he shouts, doffing his captain’s hat, and George clenches his jaw into a smile as he extends a hand in greeting.

“Friedrich,” he says, inclining his head, and Von Steuben laughs and claps him on the shoulder, ushering them both aboard.

“And this must be the young man I’ve heard so much about,” he says, turning to Alex in what strikes George as an awfully familiar way. “George’s new policy director, I take it? Quite a rapid ascent since your little snafu in April! What have you done to climb the ranks so quickly?”

“I’m very motivated,” Alex says smoothly, grinning as he accepts a handshake of his own. “Senator Washington keeps me on my toes.”

“Oh, I’m certain he does,” chuckles Von Steuben, all knowing eyes and elbows in George’s direction. It takes George aback, this unearned sort of familiarity, and he has little interest in encouraging it. He clears his throat once, a little bit curt, and shifts in position, arms folded in front of him.

“Alexander,” he says quietly. “Would you like a drink?”

Alex nods, flipping his mirrored sunglasses up to his forehead. He surveys the place, looks to Von Steuben expectantly. “What would you recommend, Senator?” 

Von Steuben chuckles again, takes his Alexander by the arm. George clenches his jaw at the sight of it, Alex acquiescing to the situation without so much as a sidelong glance. The slumbering mountain lion inside him wakes up with a lazy sort of rumbling purr. “I’ll escort you,” Von Steuben says happily. “The bartender will make you anything you please, but we’re serving a signature cocktail, a twist on the grasshopper - George? Would you like us to fetch you anything?”

“Maker’s. Neat.” George doesn’t waste words, but cocks a warning brow at Alexander, who smirks back at him, knowing. Of course. If this is how it’s going to be, his boy pressing a thumb to his ego’s sorest spot, then this is how they’ll play it.

Alex winks, clicks his tongue. “Gotcha. Be back in a few.”

George leans on the rail, watching them go. He watches from across the yacht, his own sunglasses low on his nose to soften the blinding sunlight sparkling, sequinlike, off Chesapeake Bay. Von Steuben leads Alexander to the bar, one corpulent arm still wrapped around his boy’s thinner one, and engages him in conversation at point-blank range. If anyone spoke to George so closely, he thinks, he’d have their ass. This is a tactic of Von Steuben’s, one he knows too well; invading a stranger’s personal space with faux friendliness and gusto, waiting for them to flinch or step backward so as to establish his own dominance. But Alex - funny how it goes with him, George thinks with private amusement, even given the circumstances. Alex Hamilton has never been one to allow another man to dominate him socially. He holds his ground the closer Von Steuben comes, laughing and shrugging in what looks uncannily to George to be something like agreement.

Von Steuben reaches out, strokes Alex’s arm. Alex does not move or back away. Why should he?

The lion growls.

“Senator Washington,” someone says, and he turns. A diversion. He chats for several moments with this stranger, some Knox staffer whose name he couldn’t remember if he tried, and the man is looking him up and down with an air of suggestion that he neither approves of nor enjoys. Of course. Leave it to Friedrich to throw one of these parties. All the while he keeps his eye on the pair across the boat, noticing with distaste each time Von Steuben takes a step closer, throwing his head back in laughter at what must have been some witty riposte from Alexander. He cannot allow his face to betray the jealousy that spikes up his spine like mercury in a thermometer. He grinds his molars into dust, wonders whether Von Steuben knows. No, strike that - wonders exactly _how much_ he knows.

He shakes loose the staffer and cuts away, finally met near the center of the yacht by Alex, a bourbon and a grasshopper in hand. He’s got Von Steuben’s captain’s hat on his head.

George gives him a withering look. Accepts the glass Alex presses into his hand. A single ice cube. Good.

“Whatever you said or did for that hat,” he says coolly, “I hope it was worth it, princess.”

Alex quirks a brow and adjusts the brim of it. “I’ll let you throw it overboard, _if_.”

“If?” George takes a step closer. Brings his glass to his lips, but doesn’t take a sip. Alex grins.

“If you can take it from me,” he says with a smile, and he sips his cocktail with his right hand, letting the watch on his wrist gleam in the sun.

George swallows. “Game on,” he says coolly. He can see Alex smiling to himself as he turns away, cabin-bound.

  
They find a room below deck, a tiny closet off the bedroom. George knows they’re playing with fire, knows it’s only a few minutes until they’ll be missed, so he doesn’t waste time –

Alex’s back makes a satisfying little thuddy smack as George pins him to the closed door, one hand already working at his belt and zipper and licking his palm as he gets them both down. There’s a sharp intake of breath as George takes him in hand, finds him already half-hard and cocks a brow again.

"Who do you think you belong to?” he growls, stroking Alex lazily, his grip purposely light. Teasing, more than anything. He could do this faster if he wanted to. He can tell he’s losing his carefully practiced neutral accent, the vowels wrapping around themselves in curlicues as his own arousal starts to spike. “Go on, baby, why don’t you tell me who owns your ass. If you even remember, that is.”

Alex’s breath hitches; his hips snap forward as he tries to fuck George’s grip. No such luck. George tightens his hold on his shoulder with his other hand, feeling body heat start to balm up beneath his polo. “I’m yours,” he says breathily. “I – I belong to you.”

“Got a funny way of showing it,” George says. But he tightens his grip a little anyway, strokes him a little quicker. “What, you thought that was funny? Thought that was a fun game?”

“I know you love it when I put on a show for you,” Alex says, eyes half lidded, looking up through long eyelashes. “Thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

A laugh. “You thought wrong.” Alex is flush under his hand, his cock slick with precome and George’s own saliva. “Go ahead, tell me what you are. Tell me who you belong to.”

He sees Alex hesitate, picks up the pace to encourage him. “I belong to you,” he repeats a little more forcefully. “I’m your princess, I belo–”

“Nuh-uh.” George bites his neck, sucks hard, determined to mark him up – let the whole boat see who owns him, see that this is his property, goddamn it. His Alexander. _His_. No one else’s. Alex moans out loud as he lifts his head to mutter in his ear, words coming out in a cursive drawl. “Princesses don’t act like you just did. You’re my slut, baby boy.”

Alex groans out loud. “Your slut,” he repeats, and George smiles, bites down on his neck again. And Alexander buries his face in George’s chest, muffling his voice as he repeats the words like a prayer.

 

* * *

 

“Nice hat,” says Von Steuben. “I don’t remember giving it to you, but –”

George touches the brim with idle pride. “Alexander and I both agreed it looks better on me,” George says smoothly. “After all, it’s more of a captain-first mate relationship, isn’t it?”

“Aye-aye,” Alex smirks. Sips his drink. Cagey, knowing. Tips his head to the side and shakes his hair out of the way, in a manner George knows is distinctly dangerous, showing off the fresh red marks blooming there like roses –

The lion purrs, at ease.


	3. spanking + thigh worship

Alex has got to get out of this godforsaken state.

“Look,” he groans as he sinks to the floor in front of Washington’s legs, ass and thighs aflame from the twenty-seven strokes he’d earned, one for each delegate they’d come away with after the caucus. “Iowa is only the beginning. We can’t get ahead of ourselves.”

Washington slides his boxer briefs down over his hips, down his thighs, and Alex sucks in a breath. He shuffles closer on his knees, presses a kiss to the inside of Washington’s right thigh, just above his knee. Then his left. He can feel firm muscle flexing beneath the skin, runs his lips feather-light over the spots he’s sucked kisses into, flicks his tongue against little bites. Washington’s hand lands in his hair – not moving him, not guiding him, but a heavy presence, a weight to connect them.

The insides of his inner thighs, the higher up he goes, the more sensitive Washington is. The more he gasps and flinches and reacts as Alex lavishes him with his lips and tongue, fingers digging into his quads.

“If we win New Hampshire,” Washington manages, and Alex sucks a hickey just a couple inches below his groin, pulls off with an audible pop and gives it a little bite for good luck. Looks up through his eyelashes to where Washington is staring down at him, already breathing heavy and looking wrecked.

“If _you_ win New Hampshire?” he clarifies, and Washington’s hand tightens in his hair.

“We’ll see how it goes,” Washington says, faltering as he reaches for his own cock, and Alex grins, opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue. Closes his eyes. _Still_ the best campaign strategist ever.


	4. apartment story

Alex had resisted George’s offer to get him set up in a new apartment of his own, one without roommates, for several months. But when his one remaining roommate – the friend, Laurens’ son, George had rather liked him though he’s no firm hand with names – accepted a position at the New York branch of the ACLU, he’d finally acquiesced, shrugging sheepishly upon the upteenth offer of some sort – any sort – of help. “Fine,” he’d muttered, not making eye contact. “We can… I guess. Fine.”

That was four weeks ago. Now, in the warm, humid dog days of August, he’s sitting on the kitchen counter in his brand new one-bedroom, grinning at George as he sets aside the beer in his hand, surveying his surroundings.

“Okay,” says Alex. “I fold. This place is dope.”

George cocks a brow as he closes the newly-stocked silverware drawer. “You’re on the counter again,” he observes. Not a judgment. An observation. Alex grins a little wider, takes a swig of his bottle of Abita and shrugs.

“They’re granite,” he says with an air of _obviousness_ , as though that explains everything, and George rolls his eyes. He glances down at Alexander’s legs and affectionately squeezes one of his strong, tanned calves, firmly muscled from the past few months' of biking to work (not that George approves, but it's not an argument worth having so long as he remembers his helmet), stepping closer to him. Alex spreads his legs in his khaki shorts, allowing George to slot between them. Another squeeze of the leg. Alex grins.

“C’mere,” George murmurs, unnecessarily. Alex doesn’t hesitate, just takes another swig of his beer and sets the bottle aside, swinging both hands over George’s shoulders and pulling him closer, eye to eye, nose to nose. His air is impatient, which is why it occurs to George to make him wait. Tease it out, stretch the time like new taffy. He moves his hands up from his boy’s calves to his sides, sliding his fingers up under the hem of his t-shirt, and pulls away when he feels teeth sink into his bottom lip, giving him a stern look and a taut shake of the head.

Alex flushes. “Sorry, Daddy,” he says on instinct. He doesn’t lean back in for the kiss; instead, George notes with pride, he simply lowers his long-lashed eyelids and parts his lips and waits to _be_ kissed. Oh, he’s _so_ good when he wants to be; obedient and pliable and good for George alone. When their lips brush again, he decides to take it maddeningly slow, teases him with eyelashes and fingers stroking along the planes of his cheekbones. Tips his jaw up with one finger, opens his lips just a hair’s breadth. Alexander doesn’t push, just follows his lead.

“Was the bed delivered this week?” George asks as he pulls back again, and Alex nods fervently, looking back up with a wicked little smile.

“Shall we christen it?” Alex asks, and George considers the question. He’d ordered some of the furniture himself, of course; had chosen a fine mahogany king bed with a leather-paneled headboard that had made Alex suck in a breath when he saw it in the showroom.

He considers the question for a moment. “Maybe later,” he says, patting Alex’s cheek firmly, just this side of a soft little slap. Alex bites his kiss-flushed lip again and nods, and George smiles at his acquiescence, leans in to lower his voice and murmur against the shell of his ear. “Perhaps we’ll start in the living room tonight…”

Alex kisses him harder this time, wrapping both legs around his waist and pulling him closer to the counter. George swallows a chuckle. 

They do have all weekend.


	5. alex topping + body worship

They don’t do this all the time.

It’s more of a once-in-a-while situation, really, not that Alex has a problem with that. He’s more than fine with, y’know, what they normally do. He likes getting fucked, it’s just how he is. How he’s wired. But sometimes –

Well.

He runs his hands down Washington’s chest, pushing aside his unbuttoned shirt where it hangs loose at the sides. Pushes it away as he presses Washington down to a seated position on the bed. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs, straddling his lap with a dark grin. “God, you’re so beautiful, just want to fucking devour you –”

“ _Oh_.” Washington lets out a funny little sound, half amused surprise and half arousal, as Alex goes for the button on his pants, wasting zero time. He’s all id, all desire, no control when he gets like this, not until he’s got Washington spread out and gloriously naked, sprawled on the bedclothes. He takes it in for a minute, the _sheer fucking visual_ – Washington’s powerful body, at ease here, his cock thick and heavy; his mouth waters at the sight of it. But he wants to take his time, wants to touch him everywhere.

His touch is soft and teasing, a suggestion at most, as he runs his hands down Washington’s clavicle and over his chest again, chasing his fingers with his mouth, licking and kissing and sucking little marks where the ridges of his fingertips have already seared into the skin. Scrapes teeth across places he strokes, licks across his nipples in broad strokes with the flat of his flat of his tongue. “Oh,” Washington breathes again, and Alex takes note of that, lingers there for a minute before he moves downward to run his tongue over the outline of his abs – every square inch of skin provokes a different response, another interesting little gasp or twitch. Alex catalogs them faithfully, takes note of each little reaction and files it away in his teeming mind. An experiment. A worthwhile experiment, he thinks, as he teases Washington’s navel with his tongue.

“Oh, my God, Alex, sweetheart –” Alex feels Washington’s hand flies up to tangle in his hair, but he catches him by the wrist, looks up with a vampire’s dark eyes and glinting smile. He tightens his grip on Washington’s firm wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head.

“Don’t rush,” he says, and can’t resist the haughty little smirk that meets his lips as he grabs Washington’s other hand, licks across the ridge of his knuckles before sucking two fingers into his mouth. Takes them as far as he can, tears pricking at his eyes as he moans. He pulls away, kisses the inside of Washington’s wrist almost daintily, and then presses that one to the mattress firmly as well, as he moves his attention downward to Washington’s thick, powerful thighs –

Washington’s biting down on his own lip and breathing hard the closer Alex gets to his cock, but his hands stay firmly planted on the mattress, which he’s got to admit is surprising, he never took Washington for the obedient type, but –

Alex gets him ready, long strokes of his tongue and plenty of lube and touching him everywhere but his cock in the meanwhile. Taking in every little gasp and hiss of breath he draws out of him. “Alexander, please,” he murmurs as Alex presses a third finger inside him, eyes dark and hooded as he watches from up the bed. “Please – stop teasing…”

And Alex grins, shakes his head. “No,” he says, but slides out his fingers and lines up his slick cock anyway, teasing even more, rubbing the swollen head against Washington’s entrance but not bothering to press into him. Repeating the whole business a few times, until Washington lets out another frustrated moan and finally, finally, Alex pushes into him, _fuck,_ he’s so tight, it’s so fucking good, this man’s body is going to be the death of him –

“You can go faster, baby, don’t go so slow –” Washington says, and Alex bites his lip, slows down even further.

“I just wanna make you feel good for as long as I can,” he teases. “Don’t you want me to make it good for you?”

Washington tips his head back, groans in outright frustration at the achingly slow drag of Alex’s cock inside him, and Alex takes pity on him, speeds up a little. “Yeah, fuck, Daddy,” he breathes, his own pulse hitching as he picks up the rhythm. Grabs Washington’s cock by the base and squeezes a little. “Don’t come yet, I’m nowhere nearly close to being finished–”

“Jesus,” Washington sighs, but Jesus wouldn’t want to listen or intervene, not with the way Alex is fucking him in long, rolling thrusts, watching the ripple and flex of muscle under his brown skin, flesh and bone and power all at his beck and call, only not really, not at all, this is all for Washington, really, Alex is just happy to take him through it, watch him shiver and quake and fall apart –

“You like it when I fuck you like this, Daddy?” he breathes, and Washington nods, reverent and a little bit glazed, and Alex couldn’t stop talking if he tried. “Good, because I love fucking you, _shit_ , you’re so hot, you’re _so fucking sexy_ , I love seeing you like this, I love you –” Washington’s got his legs hooked around his waist, pulls him in closer and closer.

“Alex, baby, _fuck_ –”

– and Alex drops his forehead to rest against Washington’s as he wraps a hand around him and starts to stroke him off –

– and he feels Washington’s whole body tense up as he whispers in his ear –

“– please come, Daddy, I want you to come for me, let me come inside you, I love you, I love you –”

– and Washington’s climax takes him with a tense, silent shudder, spilling into Alex’s hand, and Alex keeps fucking him through it, fucks him until he’s coming deep inside him. And he wants to say something but the words leave him with his orgasm, and there’s not really anything left to be said.

“We should do that more often,” Alex mumbles from the corner of his mouth, and Washington mutters something in the affirmative. 


	6. what washington sees

George wakes up at the normal time, his internal clock as tightly regimented as the rest of the schedules he lives by. But it’s Sunday, and a quick look out the window confirms his initial suspicion that yes, it is indeed pouring rain. So perhaps his morning run can wait, at least until the weather clears up. He doesn’t like to miss a workout, but he likes the sloshy, muddy feeling of running in the rain even less – and in Mount Vernon it would present less of a problem, with the home gym he’d had installed and all, but, well, he’s here.

 _They’re_ here.

Alex is sprawled out across his half of the bed, a little bit crooked, one arm tucked behind his head and the other up high, laid across the pillow next to his ear. He’s breathing softly, evenly, hair fanned across the pillow in a spray of loose strands and tangles, and George takes the moment to look at him, to drink it in. He’s so damned beautiful. The reaction it provokes nearly makes George a little irritated with himself.

He lies back down, turns onto his side, sliding back under the sheets, as close to his boy as he can manage. Not waking him up isn’t exactly his prerogative. Alexander has slept quite enough. And he wakes up in a rather amusing way, gradually and then with a sudden start, and, again, George thinks, it shouldn’t be so endearing, and yet…

“Mmf,” Alex says from the corner of his mouth, eyes barely slitting open as he shifts in position. “Morning, Daddy.”

George feels his body warm over at that. _That_ name. Lord help him, it never gets old, hearing Alex spit it out in a hushed murmur or gasp it in the deepest throes. Alex yawns sleepily and then rolls over onto his stomach, half-grasping George around the middle and clinging on like a goddamned koala bear. (Koalas aren’t bears. He remembers that, vaguely, from some speech he gave in an elementary-school classroom.)

He flexes his pecs idly, enough of a twitch to stop Alex from dozing back off and get him looking up at his face. Grins a little. “Morning, princess,” he murmurs, bringing one hand up to stroke through soft black tangles. “You look beautiful.”

“Shut up,” Alex groans. Rubs sleep out of his eyes with one hand, and George smiles again as he watches Alex grind the heel of his palm into his temple, waking himself up bit by bit. “You don’t have to patronize me. I look like garbage first thing.” The sudden hit of self-awareness, of self-consciousness, seems to wash over him in a wave, soaking him to the bone, and George rubs idly at his back, working his hand in circles but moving steadily downward. 

He doesn’t look like garbage at all, that’s the thing; he looks like a goddamned vision, wearing only boxers and wrapped in crisp white sheets as he pulls away. Alex sits up on his elbows, looking a little bit sheepish, and George cocks a brow, looking at the dark red marks blooming on his neck and shoulders in the cloudy morning light. The rain tapping at the window – perfect. A perfect soundtrack.

“Fine,” George says casually, taking his hand back, running it along his own thigh beneath the sheets, up to where his cock is trying to decide whether or not it’s interested. Bordering on yes. “I won’t patronize you, then. ‘Beautiful,’ perhaps, isn’t the word.” And he sees Alex’s face fall a little before he leans back in and presses a hot kiss to his throat, scraping teeth across the skin that already feels tender to the tip of his tongue. He feels Alex squirm, first away and then back into it, and George reaches out to grab at his wrist. Holding him still. To hell with breakfast. This is all he wants to sink his teeth into –

The radiator hisses across the room, and George decides it’s probably too warm to continue bothering with the illusion of modesty provided by the bedsheet. He yanks it away, turning over to straddle Alex more completely, his own knees bracketing his boy’s slim hips as he presses him back against the pile of pillows. He sees Alex inhale sharply, smiles with amusement. God help him, yes, this is his favorite image, his beautiful boy laid out like this for him, sinking into the bedclothes under his heavy gaze. “’Scruffy,’ perhaps, or ‘disheveled,’” George continues to tease, stroking his hands down Alexander’s chest. He feels Alex start to flinch when his hands meet his stomach, but he tightens his grip slightly, just enough, and kisses him on the jaw and then the shoulder before dragging his mouth down to where his fingers are splayed across soft flesh – drops hard, warm kisses into the swell of Alex’s belly, revels in the way it makes his boy shiver and breathe just a little more quickly. 

“Or ‘pretty,’ maybe, so very pretty for me,” he says, looking up with lips quirking into a smile as he dips his fingers beneath the waist of tented boxers, and Alex’s eyes slide shut again, and George thrills. He feels Alex cant his hips upward, allowing him to slide his boxers down past his cock and off altogether. George straddles his thighs, looking at the beautiful – _beautiful!_ – man laid out beneath him, who has reached up to grip the dowels of the headboard, perhaps more out of routine than any real need to keep himself steady. He bites down on his own lower lip, trails a feather-light touch with all ten fingertips up Alex’s thighs, watching the muscles there tremble and quake from holding back, and he says, simply. “Sexy. So sexy.”

“For you,” Alex says with closed eyes, and George laughs quietly.

“Only for me, yes,” he responds, because it’s _true_ , isn’t it, he’s the only one who gets to see Alexander Hamilton like this, trembling and desperate and beautiful and _safe_ , and something roars inside of him, the mountain lion that usually lies dormant and content as a house cat in the sun. His. All his. This boy, this beautiful man is his and no one else’s; he _chooses_ to be George’s, and that is –

“Extraordinary,” he hisses, and smacks Alex lightly on the flank. A tap. Alex’s wrists flex as he grips the headboard tighter, and George smirks.

“Don’t let go,” he instructs him, and the last thing he focuses on as he lowers himself to take Alex’s thick, beautiful cock in his mouth are the tendons in those slim, golden wrists.


	7. cockwarming

“Listen,” George says, “ _listen_ ,” and he pauses meaningfully because it’s not like Alex has anywhere else to be. Alex presses his cheek a little more firmly against George’s thigh, shifts a little, pulling him deeper into his mouth, and George clenches his own damn jaw. He’s aware, on some abstract level, that alex would probably prefer he keep talking, but he’s not certain he’s capable of doing so with the gravitas the situation requires right now, so instead he reaches one hand down and threads it through Alex’s hair, holding him there, rubbing strands idly between his fingers and barely scratching at his scalp.

Alex’s tongue flexes, starts to tease the vein running along the bottom of George’s cock, and he tightens his grip all the way to Alex’s scalp. “Don’t fucking tease me,” he growls, low in his register. “Stay there. Mouth open. Throat open. Do your goddamned job right, for once.” It comes out a little meaner than he intends it, but Alex doesn’t seem to care, actually moans a little around his cock and swallows, opens his throat, lets George use the hand in his hair to push him all the way down to the root.

George goes back to the legislation in front of him, picks up the uncapped highlighter with his free hand and begins marking it up again. Spreads his legs a little further to accommodate Alex under the desk. “If you can’t keep your mouth shut in front of Republicans who are just trying to bait you,” he says casually, “it falls to me to find other ways to keep it occupied. Can’t run your mouth off when it’s full of my cock, can you.” He can’t even see Alex, can only feel how he’s shifting against him under the desk, but he can tell he’s trying to touch himself, and that won’t stand – he knocks one knee hard against Alex’s shoulder, picks up the thick bill and lets it drop back to the desk with a heavy thud. “Hear that?” he asks, rhetorically. “You’re gonna sit there on your knees and let me use that mouth until I’m done reading this bill, and you’re not gonna touch yourself, in fact, you’re not even gonna  _think_  about touching yourself. And you’re gonna thank me for keeping you out of trouble. Is that clear?”

He feels Alex swallow again, feels the press of a nose against his groin. George smirks to himself, pets his hair a little softer, a little more loving, like.

It’s remarkably quiet in the Oval Office after that, save for the faint, muffled sound of Alex breathing ragged through his nose.


	8. reading a book together

Washington is exhausted, Alex can tell from the slump of his shoulders and the heavy, beaten way he falls into the couch. The offending book –  _Soldier’s Wish_ , some memoir by an Army widow that Washington was supposed to have read for tomorrow’s fundraising luncheon – sits where he dumped it unceremoniously three feet away, the dust jacket crammed into the place halfway through where he’d stopped caring. “Forget it,” he groans as Alex sets down two glasses of whiskey and picks up the book. “I’m not reading the damned thing, my eyes are glazing over. I’m having a nightcap and I’m going to bed.”

Alex runs his thumb over the smooth corners, flipping through the pages as he finds the place where Washington stopped. He sits down beside Washington, adjusts the lamp over his shoulder, and clears his throat. “ _Jeff coming home changed everything_ ,” he reads out loud. “ _Suddenly, the routine I had come to take for granted was ripped away from me. He began exhibiting strange behavior, and I’d wake up at night to see him pacing the floor at the foot of the bed…_ ”

Washington groans and picks up his drink. “You don’t have to do this, Alexander,” he says. “I’ve read the Amazon reviews, it doesn’t get much better–”

“Shut up,” Alex says, poking him in the side. “Now I’m interested.” He rearranges himself on the couch, putting his feet up in Washington’s lap. “ _Then there was the night I found him on the lawn…_ ”

He hears a comfortable little sigh and feels Washington relax further into the cushions. At this point, it doesn’t even matter whether the book is bad.

(It is.)


	9. revelation

George hasn’t slept so well.

It’s not so often that Alex stays with him, and in truth, he’s having a hard time getting used to sleeping with someone else in the bed again. He’s become accustomed to taking up as much space as he likes, flipping over to accommodate the various aches and twinges that crop up overnight. Alex doesn’t make things easier, either; he’s a fitful sleeper, tossing and turning all night and waking up George every so often, and he takes up more space than his slight frame might entitle him. He likes to be held until he falls asleep, but he takes much longer to drift off than George does. It’s not infrequent that George wakes up with numb limbs, his boy still wakeful and restless beside him.

Sitting at the breakfast nook in his apartment, he watches Alex in the kitchen. George takes a sip of the coffee he’d brewed himself upon waking – he’d made a whole French press when he dragged himself out of bed, leaving Alex sprawled diagonally across the sheets, arching his back with his arms above his head.  _He sleeps like a kitten_ , George had thought fondly, through his own sleep-deprived haze. He’ll get used to it. This period of adjustment will pass.

He sips his coffee. In the kitchen, Alex is humming to himself at the stove. He’d pushed George out of the way, taken stock of the contents of the fridge and declared that he’d make breakfast. “You sit,” he’d said, knocking George toward the breakfast nook with his shoulder, tilting his face up for an affectionate kiss. “I wanna cook for you. It’s the least I can do.”

(George admits he’s no able hand in the kitchen. He can put together a decent salad, has a few standby dishes to make for company, but he’s never put a premium on learning to cook. Alex, it seems, enjoys the pastime. He’ll admit, it surprises him; he hardly would have expected someone with Alex’s naturally discordant temperament to take pleasure in the domestic arts.)

He’s watching Alex poking at eggs on the stove, smiling to himself as he sips his coffee.  _His_  boy. His Alex. His brandy Alexander, sweet but troublesome. He’s thinking about cognac and cream when Alex looks up from where he’s garnishing their plates with salsa, sucks a little off the tip of his thumb and smiles almost bashfully in George’s direction. 

It hits him like a sledgehammer, the realization – that Alexander feels the same way about him. That Alexander  _wants_  him,  _wants_  to spend this time with him, is here by choice and not because he’s otherwise incentivized to be. That the easy warmth between them is natural, a feature of the relationship thing and not a bug. George sets down his coffee cup, places his palm flat down on the counter as he squeezes down on his own knee with the other, steadying himself as he mulls it over. He’s here because –

“I made huevos motuleños,” Alex announces as he brings both plates to the breakfast nook, sets them down on the bar there. “You didn’t have plantains, so I had to improvise, I mean, not that I usually keep them in the house either but you had everything else so I thought it would – but I think – I hope –” He stops himself, sets down the plates and pauses before he smiles hopefully at George. “I dunno. Do you even like plantains?”

“I like them with Peruvian food,” George says, shrugging. “I’m open to your interpretations as well. Thank you, Alexander, this looks tremendous.”

He doesn’t know why his words are coming out so formal; it doesn’t befit the relaxed Saturday-morning atmosphere they’re working with. Alex tugs at the neckline of the t-shirt he borrowed,  _Arlington Country Club 10K for the Cure_  printed in fading letters across the front, and slides onto the stool beside George. Pecks him sweetly on the cheek before picking up his own fork, and George feels what remains of his reserve crumble.

George clears his throat abruptly. Shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, and takes a bite. “It’s delicious. You’re an excellent cook, princess.”

Alex grins, obviously flattered despite himself. “I can make all sorts of stuff. S’not hard. I wanna make dinner for you. There are so many things I wanna make – you like ribs? I make really good ribs. We can do that in the summer, maybe. You have a grill?”

There’s a long pause before George realizes he hasn’t answered. “I – yes,” he says, tearing his racing mind away from thoughts of the future, of the summer, of the fact that Alex sees past the hazy uncertainty that are the next few weeks. Alex sees a future with him. Alex wants to make him ribs. Alex speaks of the future with such cavalier ease, a hope that feels a bit like soaking a dry sponge in red ink – George is suddenly dripping with that hope himself, wants to press big red handprints onto all the walls and let it soak through his own clothing and Alex’s, wants to wear these feelings like a scarlet letter. “Yes,” he answers, “we have a wonderful grill set up at Mount Vernon, you’ll like it a lot. We’ll make steaks, too, with summer produce from the garden.”

He returns to his breakfast as Alex launches into an opinionated monologue about heirloom tomatoes. Good. Better to conserve his own feelings for now. There will be time to gather the language, to put into words the unmistakable crimson swell that rises inside him as he studies Alex’s warm, shining eyes.

Soon. Not now.


	10. washington's dad music

Traffic is light on the way back from Safeway, so he gets back to the apartment ahead of schedule. It’s still late in the morning, they’ve got a whole day ahead of them, and Alex has no problem with that. They work in tandem now, he loves how much they’ve adjusted to each other – they’ve got an entire system, it’s so domestic in the mornings, stepping around each other with coffee and toast, straightening ties and handing off newspapers. He’s got his own place now, where Washington stays over with increasing frequency, has a whole drawer of stuff at his place. It’s comfortable. It’s nice to be falling in love with someone, he admits to himself, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he parks in front of the apartment and hauls the groceries up the stairs to the fight floor of the townhouse.

He lets himself in and steps inside, and immediately hears humming – grins to himself as he quietly shuts the door behind him. T _his_. This is nice too, this is what he loves about the privacy this new life gives them – hearing Washington singing Sam Cooke in the shower,  _cupid draw back your bow_ , will never get old to him. Washington’s got a great voice, a rich baritone. Sexy as hell. That sweet molasses drawl sometimes slips through when he’s singing softly, right up against Alex’s ear as they dance in the living room in the dark –

He catches a glimpse of Washington in the kitchen and bites down on a grin; he’s got Alex’s expensive headphones over his ears and is wiping down the kitchen island. 

“ _Who knows how much further we’ll go on_ ,” he’s singing, “ _maybe i’ll be sorry when you’re gone–_ ” and Alex has to clap his hand over his mouth because of course he’s singing Billy Joel, of-fucking-course, this is who he is when he thinks he’s alone, when he’s uninhibited and free and himself. Because God forbid he forget that the guy he calls _Daddy_ is, in fact, a middle-aged man. It’s more than a little bit funny to him. “ _I’ll take my chances, I forgot how nice romance is–_ ”

The only other person Alex has ever dated who unironically enjoyed Billy Joel was this guy in college, this Fordham student from the North Shore who took him to a show at MSG with an eye-rolling explanation: “Of course I like Billy Joel, I’m from Long Island.” He pronounced it _Lawn Guyland_  and wore polo shirts every day and drank Rolling Rock. They lasted four dates and never called each other again after the concert. That had been Alex’s fault –

“ _I had second thoughts at the start, I said to yourself hold onto your heart_ –” Washington’s still going, Cloroxing the shit out of that countertop, and Alex’s mind is surging, racing for a lighthearted quip, when he hears how he changes the next line –

“ _Now I know the_ princess _that you are – you’re wonderful so far, and that’s all that I hoped for…_ ”

He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Feels something weird well up inside him. The other thing – the thing he’s not really used to. That shouldn't be cute. This is the lamest song in the history of lame songs and hearing Washington modify the words for him, for them, shouldn't be cute at all. This is so lame. This is so so so lame and...

He quietly walks back out the door, then lets himself back in again, banging the door as loudly as possible as he closes it and sets down the grocery bags heavily in the foyer. “Alex?” he hears from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he calls, “just came in.”

He tucks it away. Secret and sacred and safe.


	11. deleted scene from QPQ (chapter 12-13ish?)

They linger over dessert, then coffee. Washington doesn’t seem like a dessert man, but he offers, and so Alex pores over the menu before settling on affogato, killing two birds with one stone. The waitress pours espresso over a scoop of vanilla gelato and Alex spoons up a little, offers it to Washington. “Try this,” he says with one eyebrow cocked, “it’s incredible.”

Washington looks as though he’s considering it, but takes the spoon in his own hand, slides it into his mouth thoughtfully. He takes his time pulling it out, and Alex can’t tear his eyes away from the way Washington’s lips wrap around the delicate silver. “It’s not bad,” Washington agrees, and Alex swallows.

He’s a little wired from the espresso as Washington drives him home. It’s after ten, but weekend traffic still has them at a crawl; luckily the car is comfortably heated as Washington pulls up across the street from his apartment. He jiggles his knee, just a little, in need of some outlet for the kinetic energy rattling along his nerves. It’s too quiet. He doesn’t want to go home yet. Washington puts the car in park. He jiggles it a little harder.

One heavy hand descends on his knee, clapping down like lead. Alex freezes.

“Are you nervous?” Washington asks, and Alex turns his head just far enough to make eye contact with him.

“No,” Alex says. Washington’s fingers curl a little tighter around his knee.

The kiss is mutual, hard and relentless from both sides – Alex reaches up, desperate to take, to touch, to grab onto Washington’s solid frame. He gets a handful of lapel for his trouble, and quickly unbuckles his seatbelt with his free hand. There’s an adjustment of seats, a fumbling with levers and buckles, and Washington pushes the driver’s seat back as far as he can take it to accommodate Alex on his lap. He’s barely thinking straight, feels his pulse hammering in his veins as he clambers across the cupholder and finds room there. He’s hungry,  _starving_ , nips at Washington’s lips and feels those wide hands spanning the small of his back, rucking up his nice new jacket and dress shirt to run up and down his spine, over the white cotton of his undershirt. Too much. There’s far too much clothing too much space too much oxygen between them and he just wants everything at once, wants to go back to the night before, trapped between the heavy door and the solid muscle of Washington’s thigh, and he bites down on the soft lower lip in his mouth again, tugging on it as he pulls away –

Washington chases Alex’s mouth with his own, holding him steady with one hand at his back and the other on his ass, squeezing and kneading through the expensive wool trousers. Washington doesn’t hold back, licks into his mouth hot and dirty, and Alex sucks on his tongue, digs fingers into the meat of his shoulders and clutches the handful of Italian silk tie and gasps  _More_  into his mouth.

( _I never made out with anyone in a car like that before_ , he’ll tell Washington months later, looking back at their messy, hasty first couple months over two glasses of whiskey –  _I felt like some suburban teenager, it was wild._  Washington’ll cock a brow,  _I suppose there was a certain novelty to it for myself as well_ , and Alex will grin and straddle him there on the couch of his new apartment but for now this is here and it’s all they have or know–)

Washington’s got his belt undone, is rubbing him through his ugly Target boxers, for some reason he thought it was a good idea to wear the shamrock ones today “for good luck” his mind had supplied that morning; he’s glad it’s too dark in the car to see. He moans against Washington’s lips. One big hand drags his waistband down to expose him, trapping it behind his balls; the elastic digging in hurts just a little and he winces with how good it feels when that hand wraps around the base of his cock and starts to stroke him off –

“Don’t you dare come,” Washington mutters against the base of his jaw, then bites down for good measure. He’s got Alex in the palm of his hand, quite literally, and he’s stroking him with a grip just this side of too loose, and Alex’s entire body is screaming and all the oxygen in his lungs has turned to carbon dioxide in the past minute and he’s certain he’s drowning. He thrusts his hips clumsily, tries to fuck into Washington’s grip, but the hand moves away altogether and Washington bites down on his own lower lip, quite hard this time, and tucks him back into his underwear with finality.

Alex blinks, his mind stuttering, beyond coherent thought at this point.

“Tomorrow morning,” Washington says firmly. “Not tonight. Tomorrow morning, understood?”

He opens the driver’s side door and gestures for Alex to stumble out onto the street. He does, doing up his zipper and belt as he does.

Washington hands him his messenger bag. “Have a good night, my boy,” he says. He hovers at the curb until Alex opens the door.

Alex doesn’t take a real breath until he hears the car drive off.


	12. lingerie shopping

Discretion was easier before George began dating the loudest human being this side of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Shit,” Alex says out loud. Digs his elbow into George’s ribs as he gestures at a pair of black knickers, little more than a wisp of lace with satin straps framing the bottom. “You think your girl would look good in those?”

George cocks a brow as he looks them over. “She would,” he agrees as he glances at the price tag. Not so bad. New York’s nicest lingerie shop is treating them quite well this weekend. “She’s got quite an ass on her,” he adds. “They’d showcase it spectacularly.”

Alex grins, waggles his own eyebrows in response. _Subtle_ , George thinks, but says nothing. He picks up the panties, hands them to the shopgirl who immediately rushes over. “Start a pile,” he tells her with an ingratiating smile. “My colleague and I are here on business, we’ve gotten into the habit of bringing home, ah, some trinkets for the ladies.”

“Of course,” says the clerk. She glances to George. “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Alex,” George says immediately, and he sees Alex almost choke on his own tongue. “She’s beautiful,” he adds, “but a real firecracker. She’s a challenge to handle sometimes. What would you recommend?”

The clerk clicks her tongue as she glances across the shop. “Does she own any corsets?” she asks, and George sucks in a breath, _envisioning it_ – it’s almost too much for him to handle.

“No,” he says. “But she’d look great in one. Something in an emerald green, if you’ve got it…”

She grins. “I’ve got just the thing.”

As she steps away, George sidles up a little closer to where Alex is fingering a black garter belt. Alex looks up at him, running a hand through his own hair, pushing it up and out of his face as he runs his tongue over his chapped lips. George can see a pink tinge in his cheeks, can hear him breathing through his nose a little louder than usual. “Uh,” Alex says. “Wow. That’s, uh, new.”

“I’ve always thought you’d look beautiful in a corset,” George breathes in his ear, keeping just enough distance between their bodies to maintain plausible deniability. He watches Alex shift in place and smirks. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll make sure to get you the panties and garter belt to match.”

Alex’s hair falls back into his face again as he tilts his head to the side. Flutters his eyelashes, just a little. “Whatever you want,” he teases. “Your girl’s gonna look so good for you.”

“She always does,” George says, and as the clerk returns, bearing a stunning corset in emerald green and gold, his attention snaps away, leaving his Alex poring over the table of panties, half-watching from the corner of his eye as George busies himself perusing the entire set.

* * *

George has a drink at the hotel bar, leaves Alex up in the room. “Go ahead,” Alex says, waving him off with one hand as he taps away on his laptop. “I have so much work to get done. Relax. Please.”

He’s not going to argue with that. He relaxes at the bar, savors an old fashioned and swipes his finger across the condensation on the glass, leaving patterns there. He chats with the bartender, watches a little of the baseball game playing on TV. Orioles at Yankees. Part of him wonders if Alex hadn’t waved him off so as to watch the game uninterrupted. He knows how he gets about the Yankees – oh well. He’s more than fine with this, enjoys the moment alone – decompressing, leaning on the bar and occasionally trading commentary with the man behind it. Nice guy. Good man. George misses this sometimes, being able to talk to people like anyone else. 

He has a second cocktail, then a third, on the house. He’s got a pleasant buzz going as he returns to the seventeenth floor, swipes his key card and lets himself into the room. He half expects to walk in on Alex with a room service tray of steak frites, shouting at Carlos Beltran in Spanish. Instead –

“Hi, Daddy.”

It takes him a moment to fully take it in. Alex, standing by the window, the gauzey curtains rippling in the September wind from where he’s got it cracked just enough to make the room feel crisp and cool. Alex, in the exquisite forest green corset, trimmed with delicate gold lace, the panties and suspenders that match, holding up sheer stockings. Alex, in black heels – he doesn’t remember buying him those – with his hair piled messily atop his head, wavy tendrils dripping off the sides –

He’s exquisite. 

The door slams behind him. George drops to his knees.

“C’mere,” Alex murmurs, cocking one finger, beckoning him closer, and George can’t make his limbs work, doesn’t bother trying through the comfortable three-drink dryer lint blanketing his brain – he keeps his eyes fixed on his boy, his princess, his Brandy Alexander, places hand in front of hand and crawls across the hotel room floor, scuffing the knees of his third-best suit on the carpet. Reaches where Alex stands at the window and reaches out a reverent hand, wraps it around one muscled calf.

George lowers his face nearly to the floor. Kisses Alex’s left ankle. Looks up, his own chest heaving, sees him trembling from above, cock bulging obscenely against the delicate lace of the panties.

“Bed,” George croaks, but Alex shakes his head.

“Again,” he says, flexing his ankle, shifting his weight in the high black heels, and George swallows before he dips his head, starts to kiss up his calf.

Alex’s posture is ramrod straight; the corset is doing its job, keeping him upright. It only goes so far up his chest, but the effect seems to extend all the way up his spine, George notices, as he kisses the inside of his right knee, then his left – Alex is looking at him imperiously, his chin tilted upward, his entire body changed. 

George stares up at him from under his heavy brow. Licks his lips as he wraps a hand around either of Alex’s thighs, the muscle firm from months and months of biking, more pronounced from the way the heels have got him up on his toes. Digs his fingers in, flexes them, feels a tightening in his chest. He lowers his head again, ghosting his parted lips along the silk of the stockings, all the way up to the delicate lace bands. Decadent, he thinks dully as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to Alex’s inner thighs –

One of Alex’s hands is clasped against his cheek, thumb stroking along the plane of his cheekbone. George sucks in a ragged breath as he lifts his head a little more, nosing along the line of Alex’s cock, hard and tenting the exquisite lace. Opens his mouth to breathe against it, wet warmth that makes Alex twitch in the fabric, and then he presses the flat of his tongue to the lace, staring up with blown pupils and a steady buzzing in his blood and his brain, his ears practically ringing from the way his pulse is rattling.

“Princess,” he murmurs, for want of something, anything to say. To fill the silence. Kisses the tip of Alex’s dick through the expensive green lace, and starts to slide his hands up the insides of those thighs, but Alex stops him, shakes his head, and George immediately _knows_ to obey, drops them entirely.

He watches as Alex reaches a hand back, rests it on the windowsill. For balance, George thinks, but isn’t quite sure why – until Alex raises one leg, the other ankle still trembling a little in his glossy black Louboutins, and rests his foot on George’s shoulder. Presses down, the edge of the heel just digging into the front of his shoulder, wrinkling his starched white shirt. The meaning implicit, obvious.

“‘M not your princess,” Alex rasps in a husky tone, and presses down, down, presses him backward, rocking him back onto his heels, and it’s only the yoga and the strength of his core that keeps George from losing his balance. Instead he bends as far as his body will let him go, lets Alex use one heel to guide him all the way to the floor. Lies there, on his back, hands up like he’s making a snow angel as Alex slowly, slowly kneels to straddle his hips, rubbing against the bulge in his trousers. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips are parted, there’s a high flush to his cheekbones that makes George clench his jaw as Alex grinds down against his erection a little harder.

“What should I call you?” George breathes, and Alex takes a deep breath, like he hasn’t quite thought that far himself. Grinds down against him harder, harder, like he’s changing his mind, like he wants to do this – use George like a toy to get himself off – he couldn’t say he’d mind, but _Jesus_ …

“Your queen,” Alex murmurs, and George’s hips stutter upward involuntarily at that. “And you’ll do as your queen commands.”

George closes his eyes briefly before nodding. “As you wish.”


	13. post-assassination attempt

This is so incredibly stupid. So incredibly stupid that Alex doesn’t understand why he’s even here.

It’s been seven months since Richmond. Seven months since Alex stepped into the path of a stray bullet meant for George himself, and the reality is that he should be fine by now. If he were stronger, he would be fine by now. He has never been one to dwell on loss –

“Whatever,” he mutters, looking up from the seal on the carpet. “It’s not a big deal. It was one panic attack. They happen.”

George is looking at him like he’s broken, and that’s a look Alex never wants to see again. One he has never appreciated from anyone, least of all the man who knows him best, inside and out. George knows fully well that he’s not broken. Sometimes weak, often beaten, but like a spent warrior he drags himself across the field, summoning all the last bits of courage and strength he has. He’s not fucking broken.

“You haven’t had one in a long time, Alexander,” says George, and for fuck’s sake with the full name, that in particular is the last thing Alex wants to hear right now – he snaps his head up, folding his arms even tighter across his chest, hugging the place where the scar arcs across his ribs.

“I’m fine,” he says with finality. “Okay? It’s over. What’s done is done. I’m late for the meeting with Reed.”

“That meeting got moved,” George says, “and you’re not done. Alexander. _Listen_.”

“No,” he says. Shakes his head. “Whatever you say, it’s not on the table. Like all my problems, I’m handling this by myself.”

“What is your aversion to therapy?” George asks, more than a hint of frustration in his voice, and it begs Alex’s attention, makes him relent even as much as he very much does not want to. “It’s like any other doctor. You got shot, we took you to the hospital. You needed PT, you went to physical therapy. Your mind needs to get better along with your body–”

“Fine,” Alex groans. He doesn’t mean it, but whatever gets the old dude off his back. George looks tired, has been tired for the past two years. “I’ll go to a therapist. Fine.”

He pushes off the desk, arms still tightly folded in front of him, resigned and resentful. “I’m going to meet with Reed now anyway,” he says. “We’ll talk about it later.”

He stalks down the corridor, laminate bouncing against his chest with each step. Accepts a folder someone hands him without looking at their face or its contents. It’s bullshit, the whole affair is complete bullshit –

The stupid fucking thing had started at the Christmas party. Carol of the Bells. He’s heard from various sources, including a classical cellist John used to date, that it’s an obnoxiously simple piece of music, but he’s always liked it. His mom always liked it, for some reason; he wouldn’t know why because he never thought to ask, but she did. He’d been listening to the Kennedy Center’s chamber orchestra play out selections he couldn’t place while snacking on catered canapés. Eliza on his arm, refusing to answer questions about work from anyone who asked; the two of them positively beaming in every picture snapped. The President’s COS dating the First Lady’s is one of those stories the gossip columns have really learned to love, one that they run with every time it’s a slow news week – Alex doesn’t mind, sure helps detract from the persistent Wonkette and Nightstalker commenters’ fixation on him and George.

 _Hark, hear the bells_ , goes the chamber orchestra at an increasingly frenzied pace, and he’s got a gin cocktail clenched in his hand and is shoving a crabcake down his throat because he does love Maryland crab, and suddenly his throat seizes up and he has no idea what’s bringing this on – he wonders briefly, in an out-of-body sort of way, whether he’s developed a shellfish allergy in recent years from eating so much of it, and then somehow his mind catches up to his body and he’s aware of the persistent weight pressing on his chest, the way he cannot fucking breathe or move. This only happens in the morning, normally, he’s awake but can’t open his eyes, and he fakes his way through it, pretends to be asleep until his body returns to normal and he can wrench his eyes open and wiggle his fingers and toes – 

 _harkhearthebellssweetsilverbells_ he can’t breathe and his heart his hammering and he’s frozen where he’s standing, gaze fixed to a point somewhere off Eliza’s head, he can move his eyes but that’s about all – and George is looking at him, George is looking at him with concern and there is so much blood, so much blood seeping through the white of his shirt as he pulls away his jacket and presses one hand over the place where the bullet struck – so much blood, _allseemtosaythrowcaresaway ahahahahahahaaaaaa_ and the ringing in his ears, that’s sirens or bells or the sound of the crowd around him, _no hospitals_ he tries to say on instinct but he can’t force the words out, and George is fighting the Secret Service with a gladiator’s arm, trying to reach him but coming up short, _no hospitals_ , _Chrismasisherebringinggoodcheer_ the song is so damn fast and nobody knows the words –

“Alex,” Eliza hisses, her hand descending on his forearm, and he tries to move but he can’t. “Alex. Are you okay?”

His jaw won’t move, his lips won’t move, his lungs won’t draw breath but his heart’s still beating like a jackhammer. Eliza digs her fingers into his arm. “Alex,” she says again. “Tell me you’re okay.”

When he tries to speak again his mouth won’t form words but suddenly something snaps within him and his arms are moving without his consent, and the heavy highball glass in his hand slips from his fingers and falls falls falls to the floor – shatters into three clean pieces, a neat break, with a loud noise that makes him cringe, and suddenly he can move again. He can practically hear the record scratch. 

“I’m getting G–the General,” Eliza murmurs. “Stay here.” But he doesn’t and as soon as his legs can do the work again he’s striding off down the corridor, stalks across the West Wing with an urgency unusual even for him. Fumbles with keys and pushes open the door to his office and slams it behind him.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there. It’s snowing. He knows that much. The hallways outside and the bullpen are dark. Only the ambient light comes in through the windows, an orange glow diffused by the snow, filtering through stacks of reports, papers, polls, nightmares.

There’s a rap of knuckles on the wall and Alex doesn’t move. He thinks, rather hazily, of deconstructionism and rhetoric and all the things he should be doing instead of staring at shadows on the walls, but his lips form the words “Come in,” and his breath pushes them out. He hopes it might be Eliza, but instead it’s George, wandering in without preamble, shutting the door behind him but not before Alex sees the shadow of two Secret Service poised like statues outside.

“Don’t,” says Alex after George settles on the couch. “I’m not – I’m fine.”

“You,” George says, “have never been less fine in your life.”

A loaded silence. Alex knocks his desk chair from side to side, looking pointedly away. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“Come over here,” George says, patting the couch beside him, and Alex doesn’t want to but he does. His legs last the three steps across the room to the couch before they give out entirely, and he folds against George’s frame, tucks his shoulder under his arm and lays his head across the familiar part of his chest, feels it rising and falling underneath him. Feels one familiar hand come up to stroke his hair once, twice, before George takes a few strands between his forefinger and thumb and just plays with them. Alex doesn’t talk. He doesn’t need to.

“We’re going to have to talk about it,” George says in a warning tone. “Not now, but we’ll have to.”

“You were there,” Alex says bleakly. “In Kuwait. It gets easier. With time. You say so yourself.”

He closes his eyes and feels George twist enough to press a kiss to the top of his head, to his hairline. “Not without work,” George says after a moment. “It’s slow going.”

Alex tips his head up. George kisses him there.

It’s really not a good idea, with the Secret Service outside and Alex’s pulse still rattling in his veins. George seems to sense it too, pulls back after a moment and cups his face in both hands, saying nothing.

Alex exhales. His chest feels tight on the inhale, like his ribs will break if he breathes in any deeper. George pulls him into his lap, Alex’s knees cracking as he adjusts to bracket George’s hips. He pushes his face into the space between his neck and shoulder, breathes in that clean, spicy scent, a clean sob building in his chest. He lets it go there, his whole body heaving and shuddering with the wracking motion of it – the sheer _physicality_ shocks him, how he’s crying with his entire body; he feels as if it might register on the Richter scale from the way he’s quaking. George holds him through it, hands splayed on his back and sides. Lets him, says nothing about it; he’s not crying real tears anyway. It’s like a dry orgasm, the way his body aches and shakes without anything coming out. He clutches onto George’s lapels and his fingers scrabble with suit fabric and he lets it happen.

They stay like that for a few minutes, the implicit contract between them building. Finally, Alex pushes himself up to a standing position, steps away, fixes what he can of his clothes. “The party,” he says dully. “You should get back there.”

“The trade agreement,” George says as he waves a hand through the air. “I’ll say there were problems.”

“That’s not a good excuse.”

“I’ll have you driven home.”

“I’ll drive myself,” Alex says, and George shakes his head. 

“I’ll have someone drive you,” he says, “the snow and all.”

“I wish you could drive me,” Alex says without thinking. It sounds pathetic coming out and he cringes already, tacks on, “Like you used to.” That doesn’t make it better.

George pauses, parsing it, and Alex cringes harder. “I wish you could stay,” he says after a moment, and stands up, tucking a piece of Alex’s lank hair behind his ear. “Get some sleep.”

“I will.”

“Take a melatonin.”

“I’m out.”

George sighs, shakes his head. “Get some sleep,” he says again. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Alex can’t sleep. He tries anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily inspired by The West Wing and Josh Lyman. I like to think Lin would approve.


End file.
